


Tight Spaces

by paperdaydreams



Series: Scars and All [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Claustrophobia, First Kiss, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25816435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperdaydreams/pseuds/paperdaydreams
Summary: Arthur and John hide in a cave from the Murfree Brood.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Series: Scars and All [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1877536
Comments: 12
Kudos: 70
Collections: Morston Week 2020





	Tight Spaces

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Morston Week 2020 (Day 1: First Kiss).

The wooden crack of a twig from the overhang above silences any wandering thought in Arthur’s mind. Beside him, John stops breathing, reaching for the bone-handled grip of his revolver. The fairer outlaw closes his hand around his wrist to stop him; the woods are full of more Murfrees than he can be sure of, and would sooner get the hell out of their territory before risking a gunfight amidst the dense trees.

The overhang they’re sheltered beneath is hardly appropriate for the likes of hiding. If anyone were to peer over from the top, they would surely notice the two pairs of legs tucked poorly into the shallow hole, and to approach from either side would present them in full view. Arthur only hopes no one else bothers to explore near the hideout further, as their opportunities at escaping without injury are slim: Ahead is as tree-dotted slope leading down to a sharp fall into a well-worn path, as main road and the chance of attracting attention – beyond that of their undesired company – not one worth taking. The way they came from is thick with Murfrees, neither a viable option nor an intelligent one. To go over leads into rocks which cannot be climbed, leaving the east the sole possible bet of escape. 

The shuffling nearby is persistent, his already-frayed nerves on edge, fighting the urge to follow Marston’s instinct to draw and fight. There’s a call someway off to the south, and the lingering Murfree abandons his search near the overhang. John goes lax against his side as he releases a breath, then the two of them are moving again, keeping low in the overgrown foliage.

Ahead beyond a thicket lies a yawning piece of stone, twice the height of a man, a narrow hole at its base. Arthur moves for it without preamble, John literally breathing down his neck, as they scramble into a natural hollow carved into the stone’s far side, low to the earth. 

“D'you see ‘em?” John whispers, peering out beyond their hiding place into the woods. 

“No. Don’t mean they ain’t seein' us,” Arthur responds. “We gotta move ‘fore they figure out where we is.”

“We should wait ‘till nightfall.”

“Nah, this is their land,” he disagrees. “Ain’t gonna help us if it’s dark or not – longer we hang about, more of a chance they’ll see us.”

A close rustling prevents John from saying another word, and he scoots back instinctively, the shadow of the stone concealing his face. Arthur isn’t sure if it were a mere rustle, and he isn’t keen on checking, and slides deeper into the hollow underbelly. Abruptly, the hard surface his boot was pressing into gives way and he twists to see a dark gap at the base of the stone. 

Wordlessly, he nudges John’s flank, scraping his toe into the hard dirt and gravel, finding even more crumbling loose. There’s a hole beneath the stone.

They could hide inside, if they got the entrance wide enough.

“Keep an eye open,” Arthur says under his breath, turning himself around to face the small mouth he’s made, digging his fingers into the loosening earth. He can’t see much beyond it, but wherever the gravel is raining down through to the other side, it doesn’t sound like it’s much of a drop. Unsheathing his knife, he scrapes hurriedly, and is joined by John with his own blade.

It isn’t terribly long before they have a yawning mouth into a pit of gloom, wherever it may lead, but it’s a fair shot better than remaining out in the open. It’s just a matter of whether they’ll fit or not… and if they’ll plummet into some miles deep pit on the other side. Arthur is willing to take that chance right now, as opposed to facing several dozens upon dozens of Murfrees. 

Falling to the depths of a cave is quite a bit more pleasant a death than enduring torture, rape, and mutilation. And he doubts John intends to argue, given how quickly the dark-haired outlaw is shedding his grey coat and hat to shove into Arthur’s arms and wedges himself headfirst through the hole.

Arthur’s heart drops briefly when he doesn’t think Marston’s going to fit, trying not to reflect too much on how the younger outlaw is a sight skinnier and narrower in frame than he is. Behind them, there’s the distant murmur of voices and the crackling of brush being parted; Arthur’s mouth goes dry, and he drops John’s jacket to get his hands beneath his shoulder blades and pushes.

Gone are his head and shoulders, Marston hastily worming his body forward, until his hips and legs vanish in a flurry of gravel. The abrupt noise quiets the voices, Arthur knowing they’ve been heard and will descend upon them in a matter of seconds once they follow the scrabbling of rock to its source. 

Tearing off his own buckskin jacket and satchel and cramming them with John’s clothes into the hole first, as to not leave a trace indicating where they are, Arthur forces himself to calm the hell down with a rapid intake of breath, pushes aside mental images of dissected innards and decapitated heads, and eases himself into the narrow passage widened only a few excess inches by Marston.

It’s disorienting, how dark it is, but the light pooling over Arthur’s shoulder finds John’s face not too far, hands already following the fair outlaw's shoulders to beneath his arms to get a secure handhold. The gravel bites into his chest and belly, the stone scraping each knob of his spine painfully. He’s holding his breath, teeth gritted to not make a sound. 

“Easy, easy.” John’s voice is clear beside his ear. “Almost gotcha.”

There’s a sense of floating off-kilter, a knowing there’s a drop beneath him, no more than a few feet but disorienting all the same. John’s gripping around his gun belt, tugging the leather loose from where it’s snagged, and then Arthur’s being hauled straight forward and his legs are swinging down, boots crunching on the flat stone underfoot. John’s hands drop to his waist, steadying him, remaining a heartbeat too long.

“Y'alright?” John asks, handing Arthur the jacket and satchel, both of which he slings over his arm instead of putting back on. He isn’t keen on pulling the buckskin leather across his back, scraped as it is from wedging into the hole.

“I’m still alive, ain’t I?” he offers a nonchalant quip instead, squinting at his surroundings. It’s far grander in size than he anticipated, both of them able to stand at full height, the opening they came through now level with his forehead. “Think they’ll see how we got in?”

“Let’s just get outta here ‘fore we find out,” John answers sharply, leading the way into the cave, Arthur wordlessly following. 

Rounding the corner as the light weakens, the entry no more than a pinprick, the darkness is heavier than a curtain, and Arthur feels his throat tighten in response. He’s usually fine with the dark, provided he has a lantern at the ready when he needs it or a fast horse to carry him from one point to the next. 

He could cut this dark with a knife. He supposes it’s being underground, in territory he is not familiar with, with Murfrees lurking above and only god knows where else, that has him on edge. John has stopped, the sliver of light just enough for Arthur to define the two black pools of his eyes.

“Arthur?”

“M'fine,” he assures, taking the lead with false confidence. He wishes he’d brought his lantern, a match, anything. “Let’s keep goin'.”

The cave is more or less a single passage with no offshoot tunnels to worry over, but the floor is undoubtedly becoming steeper, the air growing colder the further they go. Either side is closing in, unless Arthur is imagining it; he doesn’t think he is, as he wasn’t able to hold out a hand from his side to touch the slick stone wall before. His spurs ring in the dark, his heartbeat low in his ears, John’s breaths the only other sound reminding him he isn’t alone. 

At one point, Arthur stops altogether, the younger outlaw colliding into him. 

“What’s wrong?” Marston asks, low.

“D'you think we should go back?” Arthur asks. The cave sides are brushing the edges of his shoulders by now, and the air is thin – or maybe his chest is tight. “How long we been down here, you reckon?”

“An hour?” John doesn’t sound certain. “Less, I think?” 

Arthur can’t help but think taking on the Murfrees isn’t so much a bad idea anymore. “Let’s head back, see if they’re still around.”

John doesn’t disagree, or even try to complain, and they start back the way they came. It seems to take longer to reach the entrance, and when they do, they walk right into a solid wall.

“What in the hell…?” Several large boulders greet his hands, in place of the narrow hole they dug, filled in to prevent escape.

“They blocked the way out!” John hisses under his breath. “Those sons o' bitches probably knew about this damned cave.”

They are effectively trapped.

Arthur swallows through the stranglehold in his throat. His ability to retain a sense of calm is threatening to give, and he joins John in trying – and failing – to dislodge the rocks.

“It’s no use,” he bites out. “We… we’re gonna have to go the other way.”

“There ain’t nothin’ down there,” John disagrees agitatedly. 

Arthur struggles to retain a firm grip on self-control and says lightly, “C’mon, Marston. No use complainin'.”

The journey into the narrow, chilled passage is worse the second time. Arthur dons his jacket before the space tightens. He would give anything for a light, even a second of it to remind him he isn’t blind, to give some sense of reality to this nauseating escapade. He wonders if this could be the path to hell itself.

Come to think of it, he never questioned if anything could be alive down here... and slams the thought back into its box hastily. He must make some odd sound cause John’s footsteps slow, and Arthur jumps as a searching hand bumps his arm, fingers curling around his wrist. 

“Arthur Morgan… scared of somethin’ at last.” There’s a smile in his voice. Arthur would punch him if the situation were any different. 

Instead, he just replies, “Shut it, Marston.”

“It’s goddamned creepy down here,” John adds, entwining their fingers together and tugging as they continue walking. Neither let go.

Arthur huffs a breath. “Yeah, it is.”

“So, when we’re out,” his companion ventures, making conversation more or less for Arthur’s benefit – and perhaps his own, “We’re gonna go on a huntin' trip in West Elizabeth, over near Owanjila.”

“S'that right?”

“Yeah, Hosea used to talk m'ear off ‘bout some animal out there. Somethin’ about a rare buck in the forest to the north.”

“I think he said somethin' along them lines once,” Arthur says, recalling the map the old guard provided him with, months ago when they sought a nasty grizzly up near O'Creagh's Run. “I ever tell you about that bear…?”

The next several minutes, if not hours judging from how long they walk, are filled with only memories and stories. Arthur gradually settles to a sense of calm focus, John’s tales becoming more random, Arthur interjecting when he gets a fact wrong, hearty conversation dipping into good-natured arguing. 

Soon, Arthur finds he's having to hunch down a bit, ducking his head to avoid bumping it off the ceiling, when John halts with a leveled curse and crouches, the scratch of his palms across rock quieting about halfway down, perhaps lower. 

Arthur kneels next to John, ducking his head, and glimpses a vague silvery glow at the end. Light. 

“Goddammit.”

“I think I can fit,” the younger outlaw is already on his back, edging forward to gain a rough idea of the space they’re up against. If John can’t fit, then neither will Arthur, and that isn’t something he’s prepared to deal with when all he’s looking for is good news – and only good news, at that.

“I ain’t dyin' here, John,” he says softly, but firm. John slides back out of the tunnel, only the edge of his hand where it rests on the stone visible. 

“Take your stuff off,” John orders, tugging at the buckskin sleeve. “Can’t risk gettin’ snagged.”

Removing their coats, they bundle their gun belts and satchels inside, wrapping it tightly and tying the arms to prevent losing items. Arthur’s stomach is tight; he’s trying to not think of the “what ifs". 

“You goin' first, or am I?” John murmurs. Arthur shrugs, setting his coat bundle at the mouth of the tunnel – their way out. The only way out.

“I’ll go.” 

“I’ll be right behind you,” John promises quickly.

Flattening himself to the cold, hard rock, Arthur squeezes himself into the tunnel. 

It’s even smaller than he thought, as the space proves far too tight and cramps around his wide shoulders. He can more or less use his arms to drag himself forward, heels shoving off either side of the passage. He’s afraid he might kick John in the face, but the drive to get out of the cave is stronger, overriding sense or care. 

The roof of the cave is pressing down on the back of his skull, scraping his already-raw back, barely enough room to keep his head raised and see forward. The waves of panic are nauseating, his sight spinning a little.

The light at the end is so far away…

He stops, gasping for air, squeezing his eyes shut. The darkness was kinder, at least he could move. These pressing walls, this cramped little space about to collapse and crush him… he can’t breathe. 

Arthur presses his forehead to the smooth stone, gulping in air. Shit, he can’t fathom another minute here. It’s too much.

“J-John…” he manages, shakily.

There’s a firm grip turning him just enough to one side for the hard body to squirm up alongside him, barely enough room to fit into. A worried touch chasing up his arms to enfold into his hands. Warm breath on his face. He opens his eyes and John’s there, their noses almost touching.

“S'alright, Arthur,” he soothes. “M'here.”

Arthur huffs a weak laugh, battling the fear playing havoc with the racing gallop of his heart. He closes his eyes, forcing himself to breath. He can smell wet stone, the damp chill of underground. Thumbs rub circles into the pulse points of his wrists. He can smell musk, the undeniably recognizable smell of John’s skin. He would never admit it aloud, but the comfort that familiarity brings... it centers him, bringing him to a point where he isn’t choking on every breath. 

“You gonna be okay?”

“No,” Arthur says, honest. “Is it far?”

“Don’t think so…” Marston trails off, twisting his head so he can judge the approximate distance. “C'mon, as you said: We ain’t dyin' here.”

Squeezing past Arthur, a feat less difficult than it was to fit himself alongside the older outlaw, John rolls onto his belly and shuffles up a ways. Arthur clings to the bundles of their coats, fingers digging hard into the leather, the treacherous corner of his brain screaming he’s going to be abandoned here while the other bit, the rational side, knows John would never leave him behind. He’s not that sort of man.

An excited call catches him in the middle of swarming thoughts – his skeleton being found here some fifty years into the future, or something along those lines – and he looks to see John at the mouth of the tunnel. Outside of it. Standing.

“C’mon, it ain’t far!” 

Crashing relief brushes aside the fear and Arthur struggles forward, pushing the coat bundles ahead of him, desperate and eager to be out of the tight passage. There’s enough light to see plainly now, to tell the blue shade of his shirt, or count the scars on his fingers from evenings playing five finger fillet. He’s nearly there, nearly there…

His shoulders compress abruptly and he is halted without warning, his ascent cruelly stopped mere feet from escape. A surge of wild panic hits him harder than a kick from a horse. 

John’s already scrambling back into the tunnel, grabbing both bundles to toss past him. There’s enough room for him to sit up somewhat, just beyond the narrow section where Arthur is caught. 

“Hold on,” he mumbles, slipping his hands behind Arthur’s neck. “Just… it weren’t easy gettin’ past here for me neither. Lie flat.”

Arthur complies, sinking to the stone, and John wedges his fingers through his armpits to haul him forward. The pressure on his shoulders worsens, then he jerks forward unexpectedly.

Sensing space above his head, Arthur sits up, and finds himself face to face with Marston. 

Near enough to kiss… if either of them wanted.

“Told you y’wasn’t dyin'.” There’s a subtle tease, a warmth in his smile. “Although we got all them Murfrees to contend with, seein' as they will know where this cave headed…”

“And I reckon they got somethin’ comin' to them if I ever have to hide in some dark hole again,” Arthur growls irritably. 

“Better than bein' skinned an’ roasted alive o'er an open fire,” John points out. “Let’s get outta here.”

Climbing out from the last two feet of tunnel, they’ve found a large cavern, a shallow stream draining into a pool at one end, the trickling of water and tittering bats the only sounds to be heard. The light source is overhead, Stalactites jutting from a toothy ceiling, the leaves of extending branches weaving a roof green and alive with birds. 

Arthur gazes up for a few moments, realizing there was a chance he might never have seen sunlight or trees and birds again. Too great a chance, as well.

Reequipping their gun belts and slipping into their respective coats, they follow the river to its source, and the cave opens up to naturally-carved stairs leading upwards, slick with free-flowing water. 

Excitement building, Arthur leads the way forward, John in his shadow, and the stone walls drop away as the blue-gray sky dense with clouds and the smell of rain hits him. The cave mouth is fed by a river, flowing in and deep underground.

Raindrops patter the ground, and Arthur extends an arm, feeling the warm, late summer droplets on his skin. Thunder rumbles low, a wolf's growl. 

“The tunnel we was in,” John says suddenly. “It might’a flooded, if the storm came sooner.” 

“Be glad it didn’t,” Arthur turns his palm upward, catching the rain. It overflows in the hollow, spilling down either side. “We'd best find shelter – not in a cave.”

Trudging through the river, no deeper than below the knee, their boots land on a solid, well-trodden road pointing east, likely toward Annesburg. More importantly, the option to get a room for the night, and the train station to get them as far from Murfree country as possible.

The storm surges in halfway there.

X

Sodden to the skin from the incessant downpour, Arthur drags the towel through his hair, padding across the hall from the bath to the rented room. Entering without bothering to knock, John is stretched out across the bottom of the small bed, stripped down to his underclothes, face split unhandsomely in the middle of an enormous yawn. 

The room is cramped and dim, save for the lit oil lantern on the bedside table, the honey glow comfortingly warm. Arthur tosses the towel into a damp heap by the window and flops down beside John with a heavy sigh.

“Jesus,” he mumbles tiredly. “What a day.”

“How’s your back?” John asks sleepily.

“Sore.”

“Lemme see,” the younger outlaw rolls onto his side and props himself up on an elbow, tugging the hem of Arthur’s shirt. Arthur doesn’t stop him from lifting the lightweight cotton, and hears the audible wince as the scrapes are exposed. 

“Salve in m'bag,” John says. Arthur stretches out a leg, too lazy to bother standing, dragging the satchel near enough to lean down in search of the tin. The stretch of his spine pulls a gasp from him, and he upends the bronze-lidded container, handing it to the younger outlaw.

“Take this off.” A tug at the shirt hem suggests what to remove, and Arthur chooses to unbutton the shirt rather than pull it off over his head. John unscrews the tin's lid, sitting up and jostling the flimsy mattress, and Arthur hisses as the cold salve tingles sharply on his affected skin. 

“M'sorry.”

“S'all good,” he assures. “Wasn’t you.”

John’s exceedingly gentle, small strokes of his fingertip applying dabs of the ointment-infused grease, and he massages it carefully around each knob of reddened, aching spine. Arthur lets his eyes slide shut, able to clamp down the little shocks of pain; he expects it, and can resist the worst of it. 

The astringent herbal scent mixing with the smell of the lantern burning the oil, the dampness of the rented room, and freshly-washed hair – it settles him. He’s calm. 

The press of lips against his shoulder blade is not expected in the slightest, and his breath catches in his throat. There’s a distinct pause, anticipation of rejection he presumes, then John lightly kisses a slow, cautious trail up to his shoulder. A hand brushes his flank, shy and nervous.

Arthur doesn’t move, curiosity having overwhelmed surprise.

“Is this… tell me if it ain’t,” John says, so quietly. “I don’t wanna…”

“It’s… it’s okay, Johnny.” Arthur pivots a little, able to see guarded brown eyes hidden behind a curtain of scraggly hair. “It’s okay, but… just…” 

He can’t find words, so he leans nearer, one hand catching the sharp jawline, and he presses a firm kiss to John’s mouth. The younger outlaw flinches a bit, surprised.

He’s never kissed John Marston before.

He can’t imagine why he hasn’t. 

Turning more, Arthur presses John back onto the bed and bends over him, capturing his lips again, running his fingers through his perpetually-straggly hair, along the angle of his jaw. John’s hands naturally settle on the point between waist and hip, avoiding the injured site.

“So, about that huntin’ trip,” Arthur breaks the kiss, settling comfortably along John’s side. Marston hums in acknowledgement, melty gaze sharpening as he refocuses. “We’ll take the train from here to Riggs, ride out to Owanjia?”

“Mhm, sounds real good,” he nods in agreement. “Gonna need to stock up on a few things. Food, mostly.”

“Maybe a book of matches, or a new lantern,” Arthur smirks. “Y’know, just in case.”

“In case of what?” John arches up, burrowing his nose in the warm spot beneath Arthur’s jaw, the faintest graze of teeth on his skin bringing goose flesh up his arms and a flush of intense heat elsewhere. The little bugger…

“Oh, I dunno, in case of a few Murfrees or… ah… exploring some caves out that way.”

“It depends, don’t it?” 

“On what?”

Pausing in what he’s doing to sit up and douse out the oil lantern, plunging the room in shadows, they burrow under the warmth of the blanket. 

They’ve shared tents before, and in occasion when it was cold, a bed roll or two, but never like this. Never with a sense of intimacy, this closeness a newfound bond forged by something else. Something precious and tender, a tiny sprout unfurling to meet sunlight. 

Arthur can’t help but not mind it, or crave after it.

“As long as you’re there,” John says, matter-of-factly. “Y'know I’d follow you anywhere.”

“Yeah,” he responds, tucking his face into the warm hollow of John’s neck. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just an author's personal preference, I write Arthur and John a little closer in age. John's birthday hasn't changed but Arthur was born in 1868 (making him 31). 
> 
> Also, unnecessary backstory: After the Valentine shootout, Dutch lost his marbles then, people died, and Arthur went his own way with John.  
> Tight Spaces is set in late August.


End file.
